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Egyptian Melodies 



ALFRED J. HOUGH 




Class _5S_iMl 
Book ^l__ 



Copyright 1^^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 



\ 



EGYPTIAN MELODIES 

And other Poems 

BY 

ALFRED J. HOUGH 

Member Vermont Conference 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
1911 



Copyright, 19", by Alfred J. Hough 



All Rights Reserved. 



THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. 



©C1.A289581 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Moses in Egypt 7 

The Great Surrender 9 

Lifers Supreme Test 12 

The Bush on Fire 15 

Only a Rod, and — God 17 

Compensation for Sacrifice 19 

The Raising of Dorcas 20 

The Spare Room Bed 25 

Plod 26 

That Charley McCabe 29 

The Ark of God on a New Cart 34 

''All Hair 38 

Taking the Collection 40 

Mother s Old Hymn 43 

The Maste/s Way 44 

Toil and Toll 45 

The Illumined Home 46 

Self 46 

Self Sacrifice 47 

A Labor Song 47 

The Day is at Hand 48 

Sun and Rain 48 

3 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Devil 49 

The Singing Prophet 50 

A Green Mountain Song 51 

The Flight of the Eagle 56 

Uncle Ben 58 

Obedience 63 

Reading the Appointments 63 

The Painters 69 

The Wooing, Warning Christ 69 

The God of Another Chance 70 

Easter Hymns of Hope 71 

The Good Samaritan 74 

Only the Beautiful Abides 80 

Our Bethlehems 80 

Indian Summer 81 

The One Clear Note of Life 82 

Manhood 84 

The Rainbow Around the Throne 85 

Reward 85 

A Song of Trust 86 

How Will it be? 86 

The Winding Stairway 87 

''As We Are Known" 88 

When Night Comes On 89 

Finished Work 90 

4 



EGYPTIAN MELODIES 



MOSES IN EGYPT 

The Cradle on the Nile 

I 

Just a baby in a cradle on the waters of the Nile — 
Then a leader moves a nation, like an army, rank 

and file. 
This is how God works His wonders, without 

trumpet or display. 
And we know not what is rocking in the cradle of 

to-day. 

Who will solve the nation's problems, level moun- 
tains, tame the seas, 

Crystalize in splendid action visions of the cen- 
turies ! 

Who will lead the world to-morrow in its upward, 
onward way? 

Hush! we know not what is rocking in the cradle 
of to-day. 

Lips are moulding now in silence the illuminating 

word — 
Hearts are beating splendid measures that we never 

yet have heard. 
Comes a face with light upon it, — God, behind a 

face of clay — 
Oh, we know not what is rocking in the cradle of 

to-day. 

On some Nile, amidst the rushes, dreaming, hidden 

from our view. 
There may be a master-workman who shall make 

this old world new. 



Scorn the fear of craven spirits, heed no word the 

doubters say, 
For they know not what Is rocking In the cradle 

of to-day. 

When the night Is at Its deepest, and the dark- 
ness heaven fills, 

There Is morning somewhere moulding back be- 
hind the eastern hills. 

Never yet has lived a Pharoah but some Moses 
broke his sway, 

And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
of to-day. 

Earth Is full of strange surprises, In her near, 

and distant Isles, 
For the hand of God Is moving through the rushes, 

on the NUes, 
Working out new movements, slowly, as the older 

forms decay. 
And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 

of to-day. 

God, a boy, one woman moving In a path to her 
unknown, 

May emancipate a nation, and strike down an an- 
cient throne. 

Purposes divine are shaping, without haste, with- 
out delay, 

And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
of to-day. 

See! a Princess from the rushes, takes one of an 

alien race. 
Clothes him with the royal purple, sets him In a 

lofty place. 



Pharoah smiles upon him kindly, reads no tragic 

line that lies 
Written on his lips, his forehead, in the deep seas 

of his eyes. 
He will bide his time in silence, wait to hear what 

God will say — 
Oh, we know not what is rocking in the cradle 

of to-day. 

To the future step right boldly, hail with hope the 

coming years, 
There is little room for doubting, there is little 

cause for tears; 
With the day's need comes the needed, at the need 

hour, on its way, 
For we know not what is rocking in the cradle 

of to-day. 



THE GREAT SURRENDER 

Pharoah's Daughter 

II 

Amidst the palaces sublime 

The lad soon reached young manhood's prime, 

In all Egyptian knowledge grew, 

Her arts, her sciences he knew, 

Stood near the king, learned how to sway 

The sceptre on a later day; 

But he was Hebrew, and his own 

Were slaves to Egypt's king and throne. 

With life's great service but begun 

Must he refuse to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter? 



How bright a young man's dreams may be! 
How fair the world his j^oung eyes see! 
''Beauty will come to grace these halls; 
The brave go forth when battle calls; 
The wisest here their lore repeat; 
The highest bow low at my feet; 
And tribute from all climes and lands, 
With untold wealth, will fill my hands. 
This throne Is mine, with rivals none, 
Can I refuse to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter?" 

Ah, who can tell his bitter strife, 

Who strikes In youth the harp of life, 

And knows what lower chords will bring, 

Yet answers to the highest string! 

What wonder If his fateful choice 

Is spoken with uncertain voice, 

He hesitates with clouded brain, 

Beholding loss, beholding gain, 

His thoughts into this question run — 

Shall I refuse to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter? 

WTiat wonder, with over vein of dross, 
We hail the pleasure, shun the cross; 
Ask for the cloudless summer day, 
With flowers abloom along the way. 
Or turn from rough and stormy seas 
To splendid palaces of ease! 
What wonder, If, with all the strife, 
And tumult of aspiring life, 
The young man says — ''Time soon is done, 
It's better far to be a son 

Of Pharoah's daughter. 

He reached the parting of the ways, 
Our life is made of yeas and nays. 
10 



This road leads on to summits fair, 
And this road — on — he knows not where, 
Out, over rocks, and sand, and clay — 
But it was God's road — all the way. 
To right — to left — which shall it be! 
This way — and that — mean destiny! 
He took the right-hand road, and w^on, 
For he refused to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter. 

It heartens us here, late in Time, 
To see, there, in the world's fresh prime, 
A young man take his stand, cast down 
The purple robe, great Egypt's crow^n. 
Walk forth to serve in fields unknown, 
And turn his back upon a throne. 
There is a power that makes man great. 
That gives man mastery of fate. 
Helps him to say, coerced by none — 
**I will refuse to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter." 

It cost him something there and then, 
For he was made like other men. 
And copper in the hand to-day 
Seems more than diamonds far away. 
A palace waiting here, close by. 
Seems fairer than God's open sky. 
The balance hung, 'twixt soul and sense. 
Here, and the after recompense. 
A braver thing was never done. 
For he refused to be the son 

Of Pharoah's daughter. 

She is not dead, this daughter fair. 
She meets us here and everj^where ; 
Sometimes she comes with Pleasure's face, 
Her rounded form, her limbs of grace, 
II 



Now she is Wealth, now Honor, Fame, 
She offers place, and power, a name; 
Her gifts are rare, they tempt the eye, 
Her gold is gold — she does not lie; 
But he some higher life has won, 
Who owns — I cannot be the son 
Of Pharoah's daughter. 

LIFE'S SUPREME TEST 

The Power to Wait 

HI 

To see the years go slowly by. 
And all our early visions die, 
The flowers by sunny morning made 
Amidst the heat of noon-tide fade, 
And not lose heart, but still believe. 
Though hopes seem only to deceive. 
That somewhen, somewhere, even yet. 
Before life's sun has fully set. 
The faiths we planted, sowed in pain. 
Will come to fruitage and to grain, 
And we shall reach the happy goals — 
This is the test that proves men's souls. 

Amidst the palaces of ease. 
Before the dim-eyed deities, 
Through gardens, with their perfumed airs, 
In Egypt's crowded thoroughfares. 
Or on the Nile, when moonlight streamed, 
What dreams that young man's heart had dreamed. 
If he walked forth before the eyes 
Of his own race, and said — "Arise ! 
Come! follow me!" in one short hour 
The slaves would come to freemen's power! 
He called, but not an answer came, 
12 



But looks of scorn and words of blame, 
A slave's contempt, his curse, his ban — 
This tried the metal of the man. 

Before such unresponsive clay 

Ten thousand men would turn away, 

Chilled to the core, or then and there 

Throw up the weak hands of despair. 

The slave left to his chosen fate — 

But this man had the power to wait. 

He made no moan; he shed no tears; 

But said — "On, in the future years, 

They will arise, if God so wills," 

And went across the Midian hills. 

To tend the flocks, until the gates, 

Closed then, swung back. He wins who waits ! 

Who, dreaming he was born to lead 
A nation forth by mighty deed. 
Far from the cruel oppressor's hand, 
To some divinely promised land, 
Would still, unchanged, his purpose keep, 
Through forty years, while tending sheep !— 
Remembering there, on pastures lone. 
He might have ruled from Egypt's throne!' 
There have been souls, born to aspire, 
Fate could not crush. Time could not tire. 
And he who in that mould is cast, 
Though baffled long, shall win at last. 

How long the earth was coming through 

To blossom, song bird, skies of blue! 

She had the promise in the night 

That she was on the way to light. 

Then ice plowed through her, deep and wide. 

The fire flamed over her and died ; 

The countless ages slowly passed, 

With strange upheavals, calm and blast, 

13 



But she arrived, her journey done, 
In beauty clothed before the sun. 
Worlds, souls abide the Midian test. 
We wait the longest for the best. 

Man paints a picture in brief hours: 
God worked for ages painting flowers. 
The colors on our canvas run, 
His flowers will bide the rain, the sun, 
The summer's heat, the winter's blast — 
He paints with colors that are fast. 
Our structures sway, and topple o'er, 
His mountains stand forever more. 
Through forty years, in that lone place, 
God shapes a man to lead a race 
Till he the leader's form assumes — 
There are no clocks in God's workrooms — 
Unwearied fly his weaving looms. 
We fit our tasks to time and date. 
And do poor work. We cannot wait. 

The rivers will not hurried be 

Along their way to reach the sea; 

They wait to serve the flowers, the grass, 

And bless the world through which they pass. 

The acorn knows at one swift stroke 

It cannot be the giant oak. 

The patient stars that fill the night 

Found their high ministry of light 

Through ages, waiting for the sign 

To sweep into their place — and shine! 

And he who cannot tend the sheep 

On Midian plains, and sacred keep 

Through forty years his early plan. 

Lacks the one gift that makes a man. 



14 



THE BUSH ON FIRE 

The New Creation of the New Creature 
IV 

One more day of common brightness, nothing new 
in earth or sky, 

Same old valleys, same old mountains, common to 
the common eye. 

But, as Moses looked that morning, things were not 
the same to him, 

Earth was rich in sound and glory, full, and run- 
ning o'er the rim; 

Trees rose up aflame before him, voices echoed 
through the skies — 

On that day his spirit listened, and his soul looked 
through his eyes. 

This was why he stayed in Midian, to and fro its 

pastures trod, 
Through long years of weary waiting, waiting for 

himself, not God. 
What avails that He should meet us, if our eyes are 

closed, or bound ; 
What avails His calling, calling, if we hear no voice, 

nor sound? 
All the universe is silent, blank and dead the old 

world lies. 
Till we listen with our spirits and our souls see 

through our eyes. 

Moses found himself in Midian, came to hearing, 

came to sight. 
All the great deeps of his being rose that morning 

to full height. 



15 



y He had learned how near Jehovah to a mortal man 

can be, 
Heard his voice across a desert, saw his glory in a 

tree 
All the world will w^ave around us sights and 

sounds of Paradise, 
When we listen with our spirits and our souls look 

through our eyes. 

There, to Moses, seemed that desert like a stretch 

of Heaven's street. 
For he bowed low in the glory, took the sandals 

from his feet, 
Rose, and gazed straight on, and answered, God 

still looking in his face, 
And was not afraid to meet Him out there in a 

lonely place. 
For the voice of God is tender, and all fear within 

us dies. 
When we listen with our spirits, and we see with 

clearer eyes. 

God has not gone into hiding, nor in silence moulds 

His thought, 
Only to the eye that's holden, and the ear that hears 

Him not. 
That same bush had flamed with glory others days 

as on the last, 
But the man saw the rude outline of a common 

tree — and passed. 
So we miss the glow of beauty, hear no accents deep 

and wise. 
Till we listen with our spirits and we see with other 

eyes. 

All the flowers along the valleys, all the mountains, 
forest plumed, 

i6 



Sun and star, and men and angels, stand in fire 

and unconsumed. 
Speech, divine as any written in the ancient, Sacred 

word, 
Now is spoken all around us, and can anywhere be 

heard. 
But the silence is unbroken, and the light beyond us 

flies 
Till we listen with our spirits and see farther than 

our eyes. 

There are men, as man is measured, walking daily 

on the streets. 
Who see but a silver dollar, and hear when a big 

drum beats; 
Trees are worth so much as timber, mountains, for 

the wealth they hold; 
They would trade in air and sunshine if these could 

be bought and sold. 
Earth is but a money market, God has vanished from 

their skies, 
For the spirit shrinks within them ; there's no soul 

behind their eyes. 

ONLY A ROD, AND— GOD 
V 

When the man received his mission, He, before 

whom angels stand. 
Gave him nothing — simply asked him what he held 

in his right hand. 
"I have but a rod," he answered, holding it aloft, in 

view — 
"Yonder there must be achievement — little here with 

which to do." 

In life's winning, or its losing, it will very much de- 
pend 

17 



Not upon the rod that's wielded, but the man 

the handle end. 
Any Pharoah will surrender if you have the staying 

stuff, 
Patience, courage, perseverence, and you pound him 

long enough. 

Use all means to win the battle : Moses gave old 

Pharoah pain. 
Scattered lice upon his body, swarmed the locusts 

through his grain. 
Sent him flies, and frogs and hail stones sweeping all 

his acres broad, 
Turned his morning into midnight and he did it 

with a rod. 

If an old man, passing eighty, fights his battle brave- 
ly through — 

Opens seas before his people — what can not a young 
man do. 

In a nation whose high places wait for him who 
dares to climb! 

If that man had failed, what wonder — to fail here 
would be a crime. 

Washington, with his rude soldiers, answering to 
the bugle calls, 

Hadn't more supplies than Moses bearding Pharoah 
in his halls. 

Yankee here, or Hebrew yonder, ages past, or yester- 
day. 

Manhood wins in every battle, and the will will 
make the way. 

Poverty of means! dismiss it, worthy only of dis- 
dain. 

He is rich with feet, hands, muscle, beating heart, 
and thinking brain. 

i8 



All one needs is but a foothold somewhere squarely 

on the sod, 
With a purpose high and noble, none can hinder — 

and — a rod! 

If we use the help that's near us, trust the way we 

cannot see, 
Though the odds may seem against us, life will end 

in victory. 
Let us not sit down, disheartened, we can tread 

where others trod, 
All that man in Pharoah's palace had to help him, 

was a rod, 
And the infinite recourses, for the asking, of his 

God. 



COMPENSATION FOR SACRIFICE 

The Mount of Transfiguration 
VI 

As to a mountain height our Lord ascended. 
The glory on His face made daylight dim. 

And when this deep, mysterious prayer was ended. 
Then Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

He spake of His decease, in accents tender, 
He should accomplish at Jerusalem, 

His face still radiant with the heavenly splendor. 
And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

They had come forth from their high place of glory, 
Where flowed the sound of harp and holy hymn, 

To see His face, who fills all human story, 
And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

19 



They had been living near His elevation, 
Higher than angel stood; or seraphim; 

As He had loved a world, they loved a nation, 
And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

We can make friends with Pharoah, Ahab, Jesus, 
Win earthly crown, or fadeless diadem: 

In our own company the future sees us. 
For Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

To hear from Christ's own lips a Brother's hailing. 
Was more than Pleasure's cup filled to the brim, 

For He is Life and Love and Light unfailing, 
And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 

They who leave palaces of earth, beholding 
The light that shines beyond the horizon's rim, 

Shall one day see the gates of Life unfolding, 

And meet the Christ, to walk and talk with Him. 



THE RAISING OF DORCAS 

It was long ago when the church was young. 
And the preacher's preached with a fiery tongue. 
When the people prayed in the Holy Ghost, 
And a handful grew in a day to a host. 
That a noble worker with needle and thread 
In the city of Joppa was lying dead. 

In an upper room beside the sea 

She waited her last sad ministry. 

The chisel of sorrow had left no trace 

To mar the mould of her noble face. 

She seemed as one who had wrought all day 

Then quietly laid her work away, 

And peacefully turned to rest awhile 

In the tender light of her Master's smile. 

20 



For a brighter sheen than the mornings wear 
Flowed over her face as she slumbered there. 
But the people rushed through the streets all day, 
And the ships weighed anchor and sailed aw^ay, 
The world moved on, for it could not miss 
From its countless throngs such a life as this. 

Only a worker with needle and thread 

In an upper room was lying dead ; 

But thither the widows and children came. 

Wailing their sorrow, and calling her name, 

Ever deferring the burial day, 

Refusing to carry the body away, 

Counting her alms deeds and telling them o'er — 

A desciple of Jesus, a friend of the poor. 

Cheering the sad as an angel of light — 

How could they bury her out of their sight? 

Then a mother in Israel rose and said: 

"This sorrow^ avails not; Dorcas is dead. 

But Jesus hath power to quicken her clay; 

Bring Peter from Lydda, and let him pray." 

The counsel w^as timely; Peter was brought; 

They showed him the garments that Dorcas had 

wrought. 
With their passionate pleas they trouble the air — 
Would Jesus have mercy, and answer prayer ! 

Then Peter sent all the people away. 
And knelt at the side of the dead to pray. 
His face was turned to the Gates of Gold; 
At the touch of his prayer they backward rolled ; 
And there, in a listening attitude. 
The glorious form of his Master stood. 
"O, Jesus of Nazareth !" Heaven grew still. 
As Peter prayed :"If it be Thy will, 
Send back to this frame the spirit fled! 
Thy servant worked with a needle and thread ; 
She ministered daily to human needs, 
21 



Thy gospel preached by her loving deeds, 
And the poor of the city are sore distress'd 
Because thou hast taken her home to rest. 
We have thousands left who will face the stake, 
The rack and the prison for Thy Name's sake, 
But nobody comes her place to fill — 
O, send her back, if it be Thy will." 

Then the Master turned as He heard the prayer. 
And beckoned to one of His children there; 
And forth she came, with obedience sweet. 
All robed and crowned, to the Master's feet. 

He told her the burden of Peter's plea, 

How the widows were weeping bitterly. 

In the city of Joppa, far away. 

And Peter was kneeling beside her clay 

Till the answer came — could she forego 

The joys of the heavenly life, and show 

Her love for God with as sweet a grace 

As she sang His praise in the heavenly place? 

Pass out from the song and the fadeless bloom 

To her lowly task in a narrow room? 

With never a sigh for the glory fled. 

As she worked again with needle and thread ? 

Swift as the lightning flies through heaven. 

Was the purpose formed, and the answer given. 

To work for the love of the Lord below ; 

To sit in a desolate room and sew 

The seams of a coat, that an orphan lad 

Might leap for joy, and be better clad, 

To her royal heart seemed a nobler thing 

Than to stand up there by the throne and sing. 

Serving the Lord with a needle and thread. 

Stitching away till her fingers bled, 

That a widow's heart for a garment given 

Might turn with praise to the Lord In heaven. 



22 



Filled her soul with a richer melody 
Than the harpers make on the Jasper sea. 
And this is the kind of religion we need, 
Enshrining itself in a loving deed, 
Counting it better to serve the least 
Than to sit a guest at a royal feast. 

Then the wondrous news through the city sped. 
That she who had wrought with the needle and 

thread. 
Had left the Paradise of the Blest- 
Its cloudless skies and its vales of rest. 
Deeming it nobler to carry an alms, 
To a suffering soul, than to sing high psalms. 
With a harp of gold, in a grove of palms.^ 
And the heavens rang with a glorious strain, 
That the love of the Lamb for sinners slain, 
Did such an abounding glory shed. 
That a lowly worker with needle and thread 
Could sit in a narrow room and sew 
A coat for a child, and never know 
Her heart had a single pleasure lost — 
Though her soul had over the river cross'd, 
Though her feet the heavenly floors had trod, 
And her eyes had looked on the glory of God. 
So Peter knew that his prayer was heard ; 
The motion of wings the still air stirred. 
And the odor of heaven's unfading bloom 
Swept suddenly into the narrow room, 
A flush to the face of the sleeper came— 
He sprang to his feet and called her name ! 
She answered with outstretched hand, and rose 
As one who had taken a sweet repose. 
And the people paused in the streets that day: 
Not a ship weighed anchor or sailed away, 
For the news through the city of Joppa sped 



23 



That the power of God had raised from the dead 
A lowly worker with needle and thread. 

To the valley of death the kings go down, 

And never come back to the throne or crown ; 

Apostles, martyrs, a glorious band. 

Return not again from the Silent Land. 

The masters of speech, the singers sublime. 

Are only once heard in the forum of Time; 

The favored of fortune, the noble by birth 

Leave once and forever their places on earth. 

Not even great Paul can come back to write. 

For the churches he loved, a letter of light. 

But a lowly woman in Joppa plies 

Her needle and thread for the poor, and dies. 

And she, out of all that adorable train, 

Was needed to live her life over again. 

Her voice was not heard in the chorus of song; 

Her form was not seen in the world-ruling throng. 

Had she one tender tie that sweetened her life? 

Had she sister or friend? Was she loved as a wife? 

Her death stirred no ripple on life's flowing tide, 

A few humble women were sorry she died. 

And all that remained to speak for the dead. 

Was a little love-labor with needle and thread. 

But He who beholds all the secrets of thought 

Had measured the spirit in which she had wrought ; 

The love-woven garments of Dorcas appeared 

The costliest monument mortal had reared. 

The work of the sculptor shall suffer decay, 
The tints of the painter will vanish away. 
O'er temple and palace wild ruin shall spread, 
But the work of this woman with needle and thread 
Shall shine when the stars drop out of the sky 
As something too beautiful ever to die. 



24 



THE SPARE-ROOM BED 

If anything can fill a soul with gloom 

It is the memory of that best spare room, 

Set in the north side of the house, its name 

Sends even now a cold chill through one's frame. 

The odor of antiquity pervades 

Its furnishings and air; the window shades 

Are closed against the sun, lest it should spoil 

The bright rag-carpet, wrought with so much toil. 

The linen on the bed is white as snow. 

But in the musty mattress down below 

Malarial germs are slumbering, fevers, chills, 

The breeders of innumerable ills. 

And when the Parson calls, from home afar. 

He has that room. How kind some people are! 

About an hour before he must retire 

On some sharp w^inter night, they light the fire, 

Make everything about it warm and nice. 

Just warm enough, you know, to melt the ice, 

Moisten the pillows, bring the frost up through 

The sheets — that seem baptized with heavy dew. 

And all night long the Parson tries to sleep 

Feeling the cold chills start and slowly creep 

All through his frame, wondering, benumbed and 

chill'd, 
How many ministers that bed has killed. 
A best spare bed room, on the cold north side. 
The household treasure and the family pride, — 
Whatever else the Parson may endure — 
Will leave a wound no medicine can cure. 
And on his tomb with truth it might be said : — 
"He died a martyr to the Spare-Room Bed." 



25 



PLOD 

Of the wise and holy Maker, of the good and 

gracious God, 
Men can ask few higher blessings than the power 

and grit to plod. 
Show3^ gift may be attractive, glibly talk of "going 

to do," 
But it takes the solid lifting of old Plod to "put her 

through." 
He is mightier than all genius, greater than all 

boasted skill. 
Having for his inspiration an indomitable will. 
Genius is a passing meteor — Plod, a never-setting 

sun. 
Where all else hath failed and fainted. Plod has just 

gone in and won. 
He hath reared the mighty cities, with a strength 

God-like, sublime, 
Made a highway for the nations through the ancient 

hills of time. 

He hath made the lightning serve him, counted stars 

and measured space. 
Wealth and genius fairly beaten in the middle of 

life's race. 
Hard to rouse, and slow to action but, when Plod 

once says, "I will," 
He is I'ust as sure to do it as the lightning is to 

kill. 
He was busy at the building of the pyramids of old, 
And though kings sought deathless mention 'tis of 

Plod their tale is told. 
Never yet hath wond'ring pilgrim 'neath their 

gloomy shadows trod. 
Without feeling and believing the omnipotence of 

Plod. 



26 



He hath yet beheld no mountain where his flag he 

dared not plant, 
Just because he didn't whimper, and sit down, 

and say "I can't." 

In those days of sober plodding, thirty, forty years 
ago, 

We had more of solid progress, less of tinsel and of 
show. 

Our old mothers taught their daughters how^ to 
scrub, sew, churn and bake, 

How to take a hand in haying, on the load or at the 
rake. 

Milk and drive the cows to pasture, catch and har- 
ness up old Bill, 

Crack the whip and take the produce to the market 
or the mill. 

Never smarter, wittier lasses traded at the coun- 
try store. 

And they more than matched the saucy, smooth- 
tongued peddlers at the door. 

Handsomer they w^ere and nobler in the neat and 
simple dress, 

Than the modern lady strutting in a ruffled wilder- 
ness. 

They would rather go to meeting, sitting with a 
happy smile. 

In the old pung, cracked and broken, than to go in 
debt for style. 

Not a dollar would they squander, not an extra rib- 
bon get. 

Till the parlor had been furnished and the farm was 
out of debt. 

They'd have scorned the thought of sitting, dressed 
in frills and boughten curls 



27 



While the house was run to ruin by a pack of hired 

girls; 
Or, to be accomplished ladies, make the organ squeal 

and moan 
While the old folks, late and early, worked their 

fingers to the bone. 
Yet with all this sober plodding, nature had few 

richer charms 
Than she gave the happy maidens on the grand 

New England farms. 
But this age of great inventions, deeper thought 

and clearer light. 
Has produced a patent lady, and dame Fashion holds 

the right. 

Not content with sober plodding, tired of loafing 
and unrest. 

Half the boys are taking tickets for the prairies of 
the West, 

And they need but small persuasion to pull up their 
stakes and go 

To where nature yields a harvest if she's tickled with 
a hoe, 

But I've somehow got the notion that a lad with 
prospects fair, 

Failing in New England valleys is a failure any- 
where ; 

He may have the mildest climate, he may have the 
richest sod. 

But it just amounts to nothing if he hasn't got the 
plod. 

It may be the age is giving birth to more enlightened 
views, 

But it doesn't do to farm it in a pair of patent shoes! 

And it simply stands to reason that a man can't till 
the ground. 

If one-half the time he's loafing, and the other — rid- 
ing round. 

28 



Barns well shingled, thriving cattle, stoneless acres 

rich and broad, 
Come from nothing else, believe me, but the steady, 

sober plod. 
Plod can bring back for this nation solid wealth to 

farm and mart, 
Lay a cool hand on the throbbings of her worldly, 

restless heart, 
Give contentment, raise the people, make them great 

as they are free. 
Lead her on with thoughtful courage to her glorious 

destiny. 

THAT CHARLEY McCABE,* 

OR 

What an Old Methodist Said to Her 
Husband 

Before the Missionary Meeting 

So you go to the meeting, John, do you, to-night? 
Go with you ? of course ; foreign missions are right : 
But the home claims are many remember that, 

John, 
Or the first we shall know every dollar has gone. 
There's the Preacher, and Elder, and Bishops, and 

all, 
Oh, you think you wont give, or your gift will be 

small? 
Look out for your wallet, hold on to it tight ;^ 
For its Charley McCabe, who'll be speakin' to- 
night; 

*This will bring to the memory of m.any the mar- 
velous work of Chaplain McCabe, when Mission- 
ary Secretary. 

29 



He is raisin' a million for missions this year, 
And whatever else fails, this will have to occur. 
When he speaks of the heathen away from the fold 
He will loosen 5^our grip on the last piece of gold. 
Laugh away, if you will, its a very good plan, 
To get in a laugh, John, w^henever you can. 
But, to-night, after service, if you are not poor 
Your Mary's no kind of a prophet, that's sure ; 
For I've been in a meetin' that gave all its pelf 
To this Charley McCabe, and then mortgaged itself, 
Seen the stingiest brother the Lord ever made, 
Who was death to a meetin' whenever he prayed. 
After twistin' and wigglin' with "yes" and with 

"no," 
In a flood of delight let his last dollar go. 
This givin' a mite for the plate to move on. 
Will not do for McCabe, not a bit of it, John ; 
He is none of your little meek "Conference Supplies." 
But a whole board of Bishops boiled down to his 

size. 
Punched quarters devoutly passed into a hat — 
Wont be taken to-night, and I'm thankful for that! 
Put a roll of big bills in my bag on the wall. 
Or that Charley McCabe will be gettin' them all. 
Mind the cows, John, especialy old Brindle we'll 

keep. 
There's that nice speckled heifer, the flock of fine 

sheep. 
And that colt you've been raisin', the best in the 

State, 
Trots to-day without urgin' a two twenty gait, 
We'll hold on to her when they're passin' the plate. 
Why, Mary, the meetin s as cheap as a shout! 
Yes, they let you in free, but you pay to go out, 
For that Charley McCabe has the wizard-like knack 
Of taking the coat straight off from your back. 



30 



At the Missionary Meeting 

There, there, John's the man who's to speak and to 

sing; 
And he looks every inch like the child of a king. 
How the flashing black eyes of the creature survey 
The meetin', to estimate what it can pay. 
We hadn't no more than got into the pew 
When his eyes rested on us, and looked us all 

through ; 
And the satisfied air on his face seemed to say : 
"That's a hard mine to w^ork, but I guess it'll pay." 
He is off to the organ, now, that is his style. 
He will sing like a seraph, shout glory and smile. 
Till the ice in the heart of the meetin' is thawed, 
And the stingiest brother makes out to applaud. 
Sit still, John, sit still, he has only begun, 
You will pay enough money before he has done. 
When he sings the ''Lost Chord" the "Trundle 

Bed!" song, 
And "Help Just a Little" you will see this vast 

throng 
Start up to its feet in a moment and give 
As freely as water runs down through a sieve. 
He is well started now in his speech for the night; 
And a perishing world looms up on his sight. 
Its darkness and sorrow, its sin and its shame. 
Stir his soul, till his words in a whirlwind of 

flame 
Sweep over the throng ! hearts tremble around ; 
Now the Cross he surveys, and a silence profound 
Reigns over the house, as with tear flooded eyes 
All look on the face of the Lord as He dies. 
Now he changes the scene, and the nations appear 
Expectantly waiting that story to hear: 
Their cry has gone up to the Lord on His throne 
He is asking His church, His belov'd and His own, 



31 



To pour out her treasurers, her silver and gold, 
That the good news for all unto all may be told. 
Got his hand on old Brindle, and pullin like time 
John, what are you doin', there, ain't that sublime? 
"A million for missions: It's coming, all hail!" 
He just needs old Brindle to fill up the pall. 
He'll get the whole farm, sure as we are alive, 
At Mission Rooms, Broadway, eight hundred and 

five. 
He is after that heifer^ and winnin the race! 
Not the speckled one, John, with a star In her face? 
Why, we lotted on her for the next cattle show. 
She will take the first prize, O, we can't let her go ! 
But if Charley McCabe Is on to her track. 
You may settle it now she will never come back, 
He is driving the?n sheep straight out of the field. 
This will never do, John, shake him off, and don't 

yield. 
The meetin' you said, was as cheap as a shout, 
John, didn't I tell you how things would come out? 
If it goes on like this you may make up your mind, 
That there wont be a horn or a hoof left behind 
On that farm, and the sheep mustn't go anyhow! 
They are leapin the bars of my heart, Mary, now, 
Why, we'd just got'em ready to load on the cars; 
Well he's sung every fleece of them over the bars. 
You are losin' your head, John, the first I shall know 
You will give me for China, and tell me to go, 
Then oflFer yourself as the right kind of man 
To send to the Congo, or Into Japan, 
Reach out for your hat, let us push for the door; 
But he's singin' again, we will hear him once more. 
There! — never an angel with fair shinin' brow 
Sung sweeter than Charley McCabe's singin' now. 
He's a gettin the colt! Is that so, John, hang on 
To the lines and say "no" or your trotter is gone! 



32 



And yet you remember how once we denied 

The Lord what he asked, and the thing up and died, 

It will be so again, let her go, it does seem 

The Lord never meant we should drive a fast team. 

Who'd have thought that that colt with a two 

twenty gait 
Would have trotted square on to the missionary 

plate. 
But the meetin's a wreck, anyway; all its deeps 
Are broken, convuls'd and sung up into heaps, 
Men who loved money more than all else upon earth 
Seem to lose all conception of what it is worth. 
And the preachers, God bless 'em, earth's purest and 

best. 
Keep a givin' and givin' to lead on the rest. 

After the Missionary Meeting 

Well, the matter stands, John, I believe as you say. 
We grow rich in proportion as we give away. 
At the altar this morning you didn't just look 
For the shortest of psalms to be found in the book. 
Then lead us in prayer with your heart out of doors 
And down at the barn lookin' after your chores; 
But you took a long chapter, and read it all 

through. 
As though it was precious, delightful, and new. 
Then you bowed down to pray, not a cold formal 

prayer. 
But you talked to the Lord just as though He was 

there, 
And lingered and poured out your heart at His 

feet 
As though it was something unspeakably sweet. 
Last night you seemed throwin' the whole farm 

away. 
But you made an investment that's going to pay. 
We have lived with our money locked, bolted and 

barr'd, 

33 



But we've gone Into partnership now with the Lord. 
Our wealth none can borrow or plunder or spend, 
We hold shares in a kingdom that never will end. 
Let Charlie McCabe sing his songs through the 

land, 
We will pray for him John, and strengthen his 

hand, 
He found our ways narrow, and laid them out broad. 
And has taught us the secret of living for God ! 

THE ARK OF GOD ON A NEW CART 

''And they set the ark of God upon a new cart." 
— 2 Samuel 6:3 

(Read before Woman's Foreign Missionary Society) 

Sin stalked abroad with his poisonous breath, 

And his flag of doom unfurled, 
While the chariot wheels of the archer. Death, 

Were echoing round the world : 
But the priests, with the ark, stood far apart 

From the world, in its despair. 
So the Lord hath found Him a brand new cart, 

The ark of His grace to bear — 
The pure, strong love of a woman's heart. 

With its wheels of Faith and Prayer. 

It is made of wood in God's garden grown — 

Deborah's zeal for the truth, 
Fair Esther's pity and love for her own. 

And grace from the heart of Ruth ; 
Repose, in the bosom of Mary found, 

And service from Martha's hand. 
The triumph of Miriam over the drowned, 

All woman has been that's grand, 
Well-seasoned, and matched, and together bound, 

Will make a cart that shall stand. 

34 



For the might of the strong right arm of Jael, 

The wife of the Kenite, blest, 
Hath fastened it sure with the hammer and nail, 

As she did the brow of her guest. 
The Queen of Sheba, with wondering eyes. 

And a woman's royal heart 
For the panels rare stones and gold supplies. 

All wrought in the finest art; 
And swift the needle of Dorcas flies 

To furnish the Lord's new cart. 

Priscilla of Corinth rich tents has wrought 

To shelter the ark at night; 
And the five wise virgins, whose lamps failed not. 

Shall guard it till morning light ; 
Brave Rizpah, who suffered no bird of air. 

Or ravenous beast of prey 
To feed on the flesh of her dead so fair. 

Shall protect it night and day; 
While she who the Risen One ran to declare. 

Shall run and prepare the w^ay. 

Not a hand to steady the ark we need, 

Though the oxen shake it sore; 
It is moving abroad with a swifter speed 

Than it ever knew before; 
For a w^oman's zeal no power can thwart, 

She waits through the dark for dawn, 
The love and the faith of her simple heart 

Bear fruit when the summer's gone; 
And the Lord hath got this kind of a cart. 

And His ark is set thereon. 

God's love in the world's great mother-Roul^ 

With a faith His word inspires, 
Her lips touched anew with a glowing coal 

From His quenchless altar fires. 
All her nature laid as an offering free 

35 



For use as the Lord deems best, 
Shall stir in the nations, from sea to sea, 

A yearning for heavenly rest, 
Till the young world climbs to her mother-knee, 

To be nourished at her breast. 

Come, clear out the stones from the king's highway, 

Ye sons of the priesthood, strong, 
For the ark of the Lord brooks no delay, 

And his cart must pass along; 
Let the boards of missions new schemes evolve, 

That the world may Jesus know; 
Let committees meet and resolve, resolve, 

It is right they should do so ; 
But the Lord of hosts shall the problem solve — 

He's got a cart that will go! 

It is pressing its way to the distant shores 

With a gospel grand and new, 
And the golden gates, everlasting doors. 

Are lifted, to let it through; 
At the ceaseless roll of its wheels the seas 

To their deepest soundings part, 
While the giant hills of the centuries. 

Like the morning clouds depart. 
O, grand and eternal the victories 

God wins through a woman's heart. 

We follow the pillar of cloud by day. 

The pillar of fire by night: 
They spread through the enemy's camp dismay. 

But they give us strength and light. 
Sweet palms abound through the desert lone, 

And over the desert sand 
A cooling shade from a rock is thrown — 

The shadow of God's own hand; 



36 



While the sweet, fresh winds from the uplands 

blown, 
Make music through the land. 

And never again shall the ark be laid 

With Abinadab to rest, 
Or pause, through a breach upon Uzzah made, 

To be Obededom's guest. 
For the Macedonians send their appeals. 

And the answers they are few, 
So the women of God have put their seals 

To the work He bids them do; 
And the ark of the Lord is set on the wheels 

Of a cart that will take it through. 

O'er the way we have passed are blessings strewn; 

Thickly as stars through the sky; 
We must offer to all heaven's greatest boon. 

Nor would pass one sinner by. 
Right nobly the oxen breast unto breast 

Move on with their precious freight. 
But — they weary grow, and they needs must rest, 

For the hour is growing late — 
Give relays of horse! the fleetest, the best! 

Just pass the collection plate! 

Let us give to the Lord as He hath given, 

In a grand, full-handed way, 
He giveth the son of His love, and heaven. 

Let us give our gold to-day ; 
The heathen shall know that a Saviour died. 

To His blessed Cross be drawn; 
Time sinks to the verge of its eventide. 

Full soon will the morning dawn — 
But the w^orld is lost; and the world is wide; 

Let the ark of God move on. 



37 



"ALL HAIL!'* 

Poem of Welcome to the New England Branch of 
the Woman's Foreign Missionary Society 

It was early in the morning that the women sought 

the tomb, 
Bringing spices for the Master, richly laden with 

perfume. 
They would wrap the Sacred Body, which the spikes 

had pierced through. 
With the soothing, healing spices — that was all 

that love could do. 
And their eyes were dim with weeping, and their 

hearts were heavy, sore ; 
He who loved them and had blessed them — they 

would hear his voice no more. 

But an angel had descended, took the massive stone 

that lay. 
Sealed, before the Master's chamber, and had rolled 

it far away. 
And a living Saviour met them, walking through 

death's mystic veil. 
And they heard His salutation ringing sweet and 

clear: "All Hail!" 
They would know that voice of voices, there, or 

through the heavens broad, 
It was filled with all the music of the pitying heart 

of God. 
When they heard it last its accents on their hearts 

with anguish fell. 
Now it comes, "All Hail!" saluting, and command- 
ing them, "Go, tell!" 

Then they bowed low in His presence, rose, and 
on their mission sped, 

38 



Telling everywhere the story: "He is living who 
was dead." 

And through woman's heart forever, until time it- 
self shall fail, 

Will the echoes still be ringing of that first divine: 
"All Hall!" 

And her great world-wide commission from the 
Master's own lips fell, 

In the garden that sweet morning in those magic 
words: "Go, telll" 

Well He knew, who all our wondrous human na- 
ture understood. 

He could trust this world-wide mission to the 
heart of womanhood ; 

That her faith would never falter, that her hope 
would never fail. 

Or one accent be forgotten of His beautiful "All 
Hail!" 

So upon her splendid mission from the garden, on 

that day, 
Hearing clear, "Go, tell the story," she has gone 

far, far away. 
Through the heathen lands of sorrow, where the 

faithless temples rise 
To the gods that have no pity in their darkened, 

stony eyes. 
Well the message of the Master she, in sacrifice, has 

borne, 
To the multitudes in darkness, to the hearts that 

helpless mourn. 
Till the eastern skies, long-shadowed, are with 

morning light aflame, 
Through the mission of the women in the blessed 

Master's name. 



39 



As they meet in this convention, telling o'er their 

wondrous tale, 
We salute them with the Saviour's Easter morning, 

glad "All Hail!" 
All our doors are open swinging, all our hearts a 

welcome beat 
To the messengers of mercy that around our altars 

meet. 
Stir us, womanhood devoted to the saving of the 

race, 
With a vision of the glory of the wondrous day of 

grace, 
For the angel of sweet sympathy has rolled all 

stones away, 
And we give the Master's greeting, His divine "All 

Hail!" to-day. 
Then, to speed them In the future, may the golden 

gates uplift, 
And the everlasting doors before their coming back- 
ward drift. 
And the King of Glory enter the last realm held by 

His foes, 
With sweet womanhood attending and acclaiming 

as He goes. 

TAKING THE COLLECTION 

I was taking my collection for the Foreign Mission 

work, 
And, believing it the practice on the part of some to 

shirk 
From the clearest Christian duty, leaving others to 

sustain 
The sublimest work of ages, — in my preaching and 

was plain, 
Rather personal in places, and, as people sometimes 

say, 

40 



Struck out squarely from the shoulder In the good 

old-fashioned way. 
There was restlessness and motion, quite unusual, m 

the pews, 
Women re-arranged their bonnets, men had trouDie 

with their shoes. 
In the gallery all around me there was one contmual 

stir. 
And a large amount of coughing for that season 

of the year. 
This but acted as a challenge on a nature such as 

mine, , 

So I rose to the occasion, hewmg closer to the Ime. 
Uncle Ben, as was his custom, gave the sermon earn- 
est heed, , 
But his face wore some expressions that were ditti- 

cult to read. 
I discoursed upon the subject, argued, scolded tor 

an hour, . , , , 

And pronounced a peroration of considerable power, 
The collection was my first one, and I naturally be- 
lieved 
It would reach a handsome figure: I was thor- 
oughly deceived. 
When the ushers gave the total, they both said, with 

solemn face, . 

That it was the smallest offering ever taken in that 

place. 
Full of weariness, reflecting on the selfishness ot 

men, ^ 

I went early Monday morning up to talk witn 

Uncle Ben. 
He was milking, and I asked him what the bottom 

reason was . 

That the people gave so little to the Foreign Mis- 
sion cause: 



41 



"Try your hand at milking, parson," Uncle Ben 

said, with a smile, 
"Take this Jersey," and I sat down well pleased 

to make a trial. 
Going at the business roughly, like a novice, pull, 

tug, pound. 
And that heifer in a moment laid me flat out on the 

ground ; 
"Whoa there, Bessie: Jump up parson: ain't hurt 

much: I'll brush your coat: 
Here's your hat;" he said. I swallowed something 

rising in my throat. 
Then he sat beside that Jersey, humming some old- 
fashioned air. 
Milking, humming, and the creature stood and never 

stirr'd a hair. 
"Well," I said, regaining slowly calmness and a 

sweeter mood, 
"Who would dream to see that heifer she would 

ever act so rude." 
Uncle Ben looked up and whispered, "Its a curious 

kind of trick 
How to get the milk out from her, and not have the 

creature kick. 
Learn the lesson, parson, clearly, learn it here and 

learn it now. 
You must touch a congregation gently as I touch 

this cow: 
Lay your hand upon the people with a stroke as soft 

as silk, 
And you'll fill the plates with money as I fill the 

pail with milk." 



42 



MOTHER'S OLD HYMN 

Through the trembling veil of the twilight dim 
I can hear the strain of that grand old hymn, 
Which mother, whose heart is now still and cold, 
Sang amidst her cares in the days of old. 

When the cross was heavy, and hard to bear. 
When in spite of reason, and faith and prayer. 
The scalding tears filled her eyes to the brim, 
She would chant a strain of that grand old hymn. 

The pathos that saddens the psalm of seas, 
With the joy of the springtime's melodies. 
And the triumph of choiring seraphim, 
Alternately flowed through mother's old hymn. 

No master of song had attuned her tongue. 
But her heart went out in the hymn she sung. 
And it changed with light the cloudy days. 
The water of grief to the wine of praise. 

There w^as something about it to woo and win 
The wanderer back from the paths of sin, 
And the careless believer rose to trim 
The lamp in his soul, when he heard that hymn. 

There was something about it, undefined, 
That charmed into quiet the troubled mind, 
O'er the cold heart breathed with a spirit bland, 
Like a warm South wind o'er a frozen land. 

And crowning it all, was a strange, deep chord, 
Like the throb of the heart of the blessed Lord, 
That shed through the fainting soul abroad 
A sense of the pitying love of God. 



43 



The songs of the singers that fame has crowned, 
In the flood of the years are lost and drowned, 
But mother's old hymn, every pause and tone, 
With the growth of time has the sweeter grown. 

If care comes in with the face of a foe, 
Or a friend turns round and deals me a blow, 
Or my heart is sick, and weary each limb. 
There's nothing can soothe like mother's old hymn. 

When the days come freighted with naught but ill. 
And my failures weaken my strength of will, 
At the sound of mother's old hymn there springs 
The purpose and courage for nobler things. 

We know not the music that spirits hear. 
As earth is receding, and heaven draws near. 
But treading death's valley of shadows dim, 
I ask but to hear my mother's old hymn. 

THE MASTER'S WAY 

From age to age the sandled feet 
Of Christ have downward trod. 

And men have heard his great heart beat 
And longed to be like God. 

To mountain bases He has passed, 
From heights, where glory rolls, 

And with a word of power cast 
The demons from men's souls. 

"The Church has failed the demon leaps, 
And tears the world," you say? 

Then Christ is stepping down the steeps — 
He's coming now this way. 



44 



TOIL AND TOLL 

That gold is the brightest our labor has won, 
Through beating of storm and through blinding of 
sun. 

The island we found in the ocean of thought 
Lies fruitful and fair as no other is wrought; 

And never a palace so brilliantly shone 

As the two-storied house we moulded in stone, 

God cursed us in kindness that we might know how 
The sweet of the bread was the sweat of the brow. 

To him who first hailed it, with rapture divine. 
The star will forever most splendidly shine. 

And dearer than others the Shepherd will hold 
The lost sheep He found and brought back to the 
fold. 

Not the harvest of grain from the field of the Lord, 
But the sheaf we have in it, will be our reward, 

And the richest delight Heaven's music can bring 
Will come from the voices we taught how to sing. 

Our part in the King's everlasting renown 
Is the light of the stars we set in His crown ; 

And all that the heavens will yield us of worth 
Is what we take into them out of the earth. 



45 



THE ILLUMINED HOME 

"All the Children of Israel had Light in Their 
dwellings." — Ex. 10:23 

Home, with all Its silent forces, 

Holy loves, and longings great, 
Guides the nations in their courses, 

Makes or mars the growing State. 

Stands a nation high in glory. 

Ask her how she grew so fair! 
And the answer is this story — 

The illumined Home is there 

What though chains of wrong have bound us, 

By the cradle stands the throne, 
And the illumined homes around us 

Show that God is with His own. 

Party powers may lord it o'er us, 

Gold a passing triumph gain, 
In the good time just before us 

The illumined home shall reign. 

Trim the lamps, and set them glowing 

In the windows through the night. 
Out of Egypt we are going 

To the promised land of light. 

SELF 

I love to walk on sunny heights. 

With opening heavens above, 
And taste of God's supreme delights, 

Transfigured by His love. 



46 



SELF SACRIFICE 

I love to walk when Hope departs, 
And Grief her shroud unrolls, 

To bind up broken, bleeding hearts, 
And comfort sorrowing souls. 

A LABOR SONG 

We cannot reach the heights afar, 

All patient toil declining; 
The richest gems deep buried are. 

Reached only after mining. 

The perfect song, immortal, grand. 

Meeting each age to win it. 
Came forth at no light heart's command. 

The singer's soul was in it. 

After long toil from out the stone 

The angel form comes leaping! 
The seed in tears must first be sown, 

And then the splendid reaping. 

The wintry winds the gardens smite. 
All beauty's wealth consuming 

To give birth to the lilies white 
And set the roses blooming. 

The Cross on which our souls repose 

In faith that fails us never, 
Out of a broken heart uprose, 

A thing divine forever. 

"My Father worketh hitherto, 
And I work" is Christ's saying, 

For finished worlds, and souls made new, 
The price of labor paying. 
47 



THE DAY IS AT HAND 

In darkness we rallied as party and tribe, 

Nor heard the great heart of humanity beat, 

Nor heeded the voice of the Christ, low and 
sweet. 
Midst flaming anathema, shibboleth, gibe — 

As one in the light of the morning we meet. 
God's pity upon us! How much we have erred! 
How blindly we rushed to the thick of the fight. 
And wounded our brother: we fought in the night; 
And men have been slain for the sake of a word 

They spoke in the dark, that was meant for the 
light. 
The night is far spent, the day is at hand, 

When down from the well-rounded form of the 
creed 
Shall sweep the white robe of the merciful deed, 
And over the desolate fields of the land 

The sower of kindness shall scatter his seed. 
In quest of the truth moves the vanguard of souls; 

The myths of the ages are melting away 
Before the calm gaze of the heart searching day. 
On temple and altar, on time honored scrolls. 
The light trembles down. Let us praise; Let us 
pray. 

SUN AND RAIN 

The sun worked all alone each day; 

The rain stayed far, and far away; 

Then there was trouble ever5rwhere — 

The fields were scorched, the hills were bare. 

To mould the grass, the flow^er, the grain, 

There must be sun, there must be rain. 

What tasks are waiting to be done! 
If Faith is rain, then Work is sun, 

48 



And one alone can never do 
The deed that calls aloud for two. 
O'er all the fields of thought and grain 
There must be sun, there must be ram. 

Man seems sufficient for his hour! 
What gifts are his, what genius, power ; 
But where the harvests he has grown. 
Or empires he has shaped, alone? 
He works with God, or works In vam ; 
There must be sun, there must be ram. 

THE DEVIL 

Men don't believe In a Devil now, as their fathers 

used to do; 
They've forced the door of the broadest creed to 

let his Majesty through. 
There Isn't a print of his cloven foot, or a fiery 

dart from his bow 
To be found In earth or air to-day, for the world 

has voted so. 

They say he does not go about as a roaring Hon 
now. 

But whom shall we hold responsible for the ever- 
lasting row 

To be heard In home. In church and State, to the 
earth's remotest bound. 

If the devil, by a unanimous vote. Is nowhere to 
be found? 

Who Is it mixing the fatal draught that palsies 

heart and brain? 
Who loads the bier of each passing year with ten 

hundred thousand slain? 
Who blights the bloom of the land to-day with the 

fiery breath of hell, 
49 



If the devil isn't, and never was, won't somebody 
rise and tell? 

Who dogs the steps of the toiling Saint, and digs 

the pits for his feet? 
Who sows the tares in the fields of Time wherever 

God sows his wheat? 
The devil was voted not to be, and, of course, the 

thing is true, 
But who is doing the kind of work the Devil 

alone should do? 

Won't somebody step to the front, forthwith, and 

make their bow, and show 
How the frauds and crimes of a single day spring 

up, we want to know. 
The Devil was fairly voted out, and, of course, 

the Devil's gone. 
But simple people would like to know who carries 

his business on. 

THE SINGING PROPHET 

There may come a day like summer, full of Life's 
impassioned thrills, 

When the ice is in the valleys, and the snow is on 
the hills; 

In their hives, securely sheltered, wait the cau- 
tious honey bees. 

Till they hear the robins singing, swinging in the 
maple trees. 

From the South the winds may wander, warm and 
wooing, on their way. 

Breathing tones in April weather with the tender- 
ness of May, 

But the orchards will not waken, not a bud the 
sunshine sees, 

50 



Till the robins have been singing, swinging in the 
maple trees. 

In the folds the sheep tread restless to and fro 
the barren floors, 

With a bleating for the pastures, and the joy of 
out-of-doors. 

And the cattle stalled all winter chafe in stan- 
chions, ill at ease, 

When they hear the robins singing, swinging in the 
maple trees. 

Then the sportsman thinks of rifle, fishing outfit, 

laid away. 
And his dog makes truant visits to the hunting 

grounds each day. 
Then the Spring flowers spread their blossoms to 

the sunshine and the breeze, 
When they hear the robin singing, swinging in the 

maple trees. 

There are prophets that deceive us, who pretend to 

know each sign 
On the book of nature written, when they cannot 

read a line. 
But we know the Spring is near us, when we hear 

the melodies 
Of the happy robins singing, swinging in the maple 

trees. 

A GREEN MOUNTAIN SONG 

Here's a song of our Green Mountains, 
Fair, and loved, and honored State, 

Of her valleys and her fountains. 
And her sons who made her great. 

Bright will shine her deeds in story, 

51 



Evermore her fame will ring; 
Covered is her flag with glory 
And her praises will we sing. 

Small she is — a bird can cross her, 

Without pausing in its flight, 
But she has a compensation — 

Her material, moral height; 
Standing up amidst the nation 

As once st'^od the kingly Saul, 
In the presence of the people, 

Head and shoulders over all. 
Greece was small, and so was Britain, 

But they rose to sovereign sway 
As Vermont has slowly risen 

To the place she holds to-day. 

In the Senate she has spoken. 

Still is speaking, and her word. 
Calm, majestic, full of wisdom, 

Carries weight whenever heard. 
On the bench and in the market 

Pure as flame her actions glow. 
And what battle-field beheld her 

Turn her back upon the foe? 
For the nation knows that ever 

In the day of blood and tears 
She can count upon the valor 

Of her hardy mountaineers, 
That, in answer to the bugle. 

Forth from mountain and from glen 
Will be marching to the battle 

Fifty thousand armed men, 
As they marched, well, all men know it. 

For this fact in history shines. 
That Vermont is good at plowing 

Stony lands or rebel lines. 
Sound the bugle, she will hear it, 
52 



And awake to mighty deeds; 
Lift the banner, she will cheer it, 
And then follow where it leads. 

It's the best State in the Union 

For the cure of that distress 
Which a sight of people die of, 

Known as chronic laziness. 
For her Summer is too fleeting 

For a man to sit at ease, 
And her Winter such a wild one 

That he's bound to work or freeze. 
Stamped upon her vales and mountains, 

Clearly seen by every eye. 
Are these words of solemn import: 

"You must either dig or die!" 

Was there ever breathed from organ, 

Or rehearsed in poet's lines 
Any music like the sighing 

Of her winds among her pines? 
Any strain by spirit chanted 

Though a night of happy dreams 
That surpassed the measures woven 

By the flowing of her streams? 
There's the spirit of contentment 

In the lowing of her herds; 
There's a thrill of magic rapture 

In the singing of her birds, 
And sublime as shout of victors, 

When their foes, defeated, fly. 
Is the answer of her mountains 

To the thunders of the sky. 

Was there ever laid on canvas, 
For the love of fame or gold. 

Hues like those which clothe her maples 
When the year is growing old? 
53 



Softer lights, and richer shadows 

Float before her children's eyes, 
Than have swept the wolds and waters. 

Underneath Italian skies. 
Who shall paint her mountains rising 

Up like towers to greet the sun, 
Or the streams that from their summits 

To their bases leap and run? 
Who shall tell the strange enchantment 

Of her resurrection hours. 
When the Springtime rises o'er her. 

Changing snow drifts into flowers? 
When the woods, all bare at sunset. 

Greet the morning's tender dawn. 
Like a troop of pleasure seekers 

With their Summer garments on? 
Angels drifting to her valleys 

Ere the Indian Summer dies 
Might still dream that they were moving 

In the midst of Paradise. 

Horses? Well, trot out that Morgan, 

Hitch her up and clear the way; 
See that gait! she'll keep it steady 

Through the longest Summer day, 
Swing a buggy o'er the mountains, 

Lines drawn tight, or lying slack, 
Turn at nightfall to the stable. 

Not a wet hair on her back. 
Little, is she? Well, each finely 

Moulded, supple, nervous limb. 
It just like the State that raised her. 

Crowded full of go and vim ; 
And it's safe to say, for traveling 

Over these delightful hills, 
Nothing better than the Morgan 

Ever stood between two thills. 



54 



Maple sugar? she supplies it 

For the East and Western home, 
Sweeter than the nectar hidden 

In the purest honey comb. 
Oh, the tinkle of the dropping 

Of the sap into the pails! 
Was there ever such fantastic 

Music borne upon the gales, 
Was there ever sight more jolly 

Seen by mortals here below 
Than a group of lads and lasses 

Eating sugar upon snow? 

There's her butter — just look at it! 

Yellow as her goldenrod; 
Colored? Yes, with colors nature 

Mixed up with her virgin sod. 
Bring that Jersey — milk a pailful, 

And the cream at once will rise. 
To the surface, rich and yellow, 

While you look, before your eyes. 
Then, the women are such marvels. 

Made of such superior parts. 
That the butter, when they touch it, 

Takes the flavor of their hearts; 
Every time they turn it over. 

Kneed it up, or toss it round, 
Something seems to make it worth 

Another cent or two a pound. 
See it ready for the market, 

Wrapped in snow^-white linen bands. 
And you'll say that it was moulded 

By the daintiest of hands. 

Freedom's soul is in the sighing 

Of her pines o'er mountains green, 
And the smile of peace is lying 



55 



On her vales that sweep between. 
Soft the skies that bend above her, 

Dear the homes that round her cling: 
Old Vermont we love, we love her, 

And her praises will we sing. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 

The eagle came out of his shell at a tap from Wash- 
ington's sword. 

When the banner of old King George down at 
Yorktown had been lowered. 

He was pin-feathered, downy, rude, and his head 
was bald as a bell — 

Just the queerest of looking birds that ever came 
out of a shell. 

He looked up at the sun, nor blinked, glanced at 
North, South, East and West, 

While the wind from all quarters came and played 
with the down on his breast. 

George Washington said: — "He is strong!" Pat- 
rick Henry said: — "He is game!" 

Then Jefferson wrote out his rights, and he signed 
the eagle's name. 

How the old world laughed when it heard, that 

away in the Western clime, 
A Republican breed of bird had stepped out from 

the shell of Time. 
Some said: — "Let us clip his broad wings!" but 

others said : — "Let him alone. 
For what is a land without kings, and a nation 

without a throne?" 
But all w^ere agreed he may fly till a few troubled 

years have run. 
And then he will sicken and die as birds of that 

breed have done. 

56 



Yet the wisest of prophets may err, as prophets 
have erred before, . 

For that bird is not only alive, but is just begin- 
ning to soar. 

On a later day in the South rose a bird of another 

breed, 
With wings that were black as the night; and a 

scream to all discord keyed. 
Then the bird from the Union nest answered back 

from his eyrie high: 
"One eagle, unchallenged, alone, shall over this 

continent fly!" 
They met where the storm winds blew; they bat- 
tled like fiendish things; 
And the land was darkened four years with the 

shadow of eagles' wings. 
Then the victor alone was seen, perched above the 

stripes and stars, 
In his talons and beak two wings, and some shreds 

of a flag with bars. 

As he sat on a rock one day, and heard the boom- 
ing of guns. 
He said:— "In Manila Bay is one of my Green 

Mountain sons, ^ c • ' 

George Dewey, just hammering holes into Spain s 

old-fashioned fleet!" — 
Then the fire leaped out of his eye, and his heart had 

a swifter beat — . 

Up he rose on his broad, brave wings, took a circle 

or two in the height. 
Then away over seas sailed he, the American eagle 

In flight,— 
Paused above the Philippines and screamed :^^ 

"Hold everything, George, you can get! 
And the captain saluted and answered, the Green 

Mountain way: — "You bet!" 
57 



If the Old World knows what is best it will let that 

eagle alone, 
And it won't throw stones at his nest, — the stars 

and stripes he has flown, — 
Or rufl^e his feathers the least, for a strange fire 

glints in his eye, 
And his talons are tipped with steel, and that eagle 

is bound to fly. 

UNCLE BEN 

Uncle Ben, I met him early in my pastoral pur- 
suits. 
Typical Vermonter, standing straight, and six feet 

out of boots. 
I was thirty, he was eighty, but this single sign 

appeared 
Of Time's wasting work — the whiteness of his 

flowing locks and beard. 
At the close of my first sermon, with a friendly 

hand and smile, 
By the altar rails he met me, led me down the 

center aisle. 
Introduced me to the people, praised the pastors 

gone before, 
Told me how and where to find him as we parted 

at the door. 
"Go up by the village school house, take the first 

road to your right; 
Keep on till you pass three houses, two are brown 

and one is white. 
When you reach the signboard standing just beyond 

the waterbox. 
Turn sharp to your left hand leaving on your right 

a ledge of rocks; 
Go straight down the hill, and follow, still your 

left, a shady lane, 

58 



Leave a clearing on your right hand — there — I 

guess I've made It plain. 
Keep on through a sugar orchard, not the best of 

roads, and then, 
Right before you stands a farm house — I live there 

—I'm Uncle Ben." 
Going out I met my brother half-way through the 

shady lane, 
Leading at his side a Morgan, w^ith his hand thrust 

through her mane. 
''Handsome horse, she's been," I ventured, after 

greeting, to remark. 
And his clear, blue eye responded in an instant 

v^^Ith a spark 
Of electric fire, and, smiling, he said: — "Parson, 

walk with me 
To the pasture, just beyond us, then go home and 

stop to tea." 
I assented; then he gossiped: "This old creature's 

name is Fan. 
Morgan horses come the nearest in intelligence to 

man. 
I must tell you something, parson, since you kind 

of like the mare, 
What occurred one fall as I was driving out to 

see our county fair. 
Fan was trotting gently onward; I was taking in 

the scene; 
Nature never looked so lovely, never seemed so 

sweet and clean. 
Round the hills a purple splendor like an ocean 

seemed to float, 
And the maple groves stood wearing Joseph's many- 
colored coat. 
Presently a team o'ertook us, and I heard the driver 

cry — 
In a rude, sarcastic manner, "Now, old man, let us 

go by!" 

59 



Looking round I saw two dudish, pert, young fel- 
lows, with a black. 
High stepping, stylish creature, they could hardly 

hold him back. 
I was just about to give them all they wanted of 

the way, 
When "old fossil," said the other, "we can't take 

your dust to-day." 
"Maybe not," I said: he answered, "We don't ride 

behind the heels 
Of your old Green Mountain creepers, turn out, 

or off comes your wheels." 
I looked back at those two dandies, and said, meek- 
ly: — ''Is that sof" 
Turned to Fan; took up the ribbons, uttered one 

short message — "Go!" 
As the tiger bounds elated in the forest on the 

prey; 
As the floods rush through the meadows when the 

milldam breaks away. 
So this Morgan, bless her, straightened, at one 

bound, and struck a pace 
That had heaps of business in it, and we settled 

down to race. 
Road was full of teams and people, but they heard 

the noise and drew 
Up against the wayside fences, making room to let 

us through. 
How they cheered as we shot past them — women 

cheered as well as men — 
I could hear their voices shouting — "Let her out! 

Go, Uncle Ben!" 
And I went. Fan understood it; took the bit 

right in her teeth 
While the trees and fences round us, and the firm 

ground underneath 



60 



Flew behind us. Dogs were barking, geese were 

cackling, fowls flew 
High above the barnyard fences, dust in clouds 

behind us blew. 
That was traveling, parson, traveling; every buckle, 

girth and strap 
Seemed alive. Fan's neck extended, and her tail 

laid in my lap. 
Over hilltops, down through hollows, crossing 

bridges with a bound, 
And the wheels went so like lightning that they 

hardly touched the ground. 
Well, I'm most ashamed to tell it, but Fan went 

at such a rate 
That I thought it best to head her for the course, 

straight through the gate. 
And so calm her down and cool her, get her sobered, 

well in hand. 
But the horses were just starting as I reached the 

judges' stand. 
And the folks that 'tend the races had the biggest 

kind of show. 
For the instant that the starter shouted out the mes- 
sage— "Go!" 
Fan was in it; couldn't stop her, and the jockeys 

in their gigs 
With their whips adorned with ribbons, in their 

reg'lar racing rigs. 
Whipped and shouted, but, no matter, I was lead- 
ing with the mare 
That had never struck a hoof upon a race course 

at a Fair. 
Don't believe in racing, parson, never did, but this 

was one 
Of the purest of surprises, and the people had the 

fun. 
There I was, old-fashioned buggy, old straw hat, 

without a whip, 

6i 



Leading round the whole procession at a clean two- 
twenty clip. 
How the people cheered and shouted — ''Go in 

hayseed: you'll win;" 
And I w^ent in; couldn't help it: Fan was going 

then like sin, 
With that old Green Mountain Morgan, little 

cyclone sort of pace, 
Its superlative abandon, and its fascinating grace. 
But the jockeys entered protest, for they saw that 

they were beat. 
I was not a reg'lar entry, and could trot no other 

heat. 
I was glad of the conclusion, and proceeded to ex- 
plain, 
But the crowd broke into cheering, and the band 

struck up a strain ; 
So we left the course with honor. Fan and I, but, 

parson, just 
Beyond the gate those dandies with a horse all foam 

and dust. 
Limped beside us, and I raised my hat, and asked, 

in a cool way — 
*'How is business, boys, progressing, taking wheels 

off, this fine day?" 
But they didn't seem to hear me ; their attention had 

been led 
To some interesting object, — they were looking 

straight ahead. 
When they pass Green Mountain Morgans, with 

our sort of hills to climb. 
They must get up pretty early, and be busy all the 

time. 
Here's the pasture, parson, drop a bar dow^n, two 

or three. 
Thanks ! Go, Fan ! Just see her, parson ; come 

home now, and stay to tea." 

62 



OBEDIENCE 

Speak the word God bids thee, 

No other word can reach 
The hearts that wait in silence 

The coming of thy speech. 

Sing the song God bids thee, 

The heart of this world-throng 

Needs for its perfect solace 
The music of thy song. 

Do the work God bids thee; 

One, only one still loom, 
Awaits thy touch and tending 

In all this lower room. 

READING THE APPOINTMENTS 

I was sitting in a wing-slip, close beside the altar- 
rail. 

When the Bishop came in softly, with a face serene, 
but pale. 

And a silence indescribably pathetic in its power, 

Such as might have reigned in Heaven through 
that "space of half an hour," 

Rested on that whole assembly as the Bishop rose 
and said: 

"All the business being finished the appointments 
will be read." 

Not as one who handles lightly merchandise of lit- 
tle worth, 

But as dealing with the richest, most important 
things on earth. 

In the fellowship of Jesus, with the failings of a 
man, — 

The good Bishop asked forebearance, — he had done 
his best to plan 

63 



For the glory of his Master, trusting Him to guide 

his pen, 
Without prejudice or favor — and the preachers 

cried — "Amen." 
"Beulah Mountains" — "Henry Singer" — happy peo- 
ple, happy priest, 
On the dainties of the gospel through the changing 

year to feast. 
Not a church trial ever vexed them, all their preach- 
ers stay three years, 
And depart amidst a tempest of the purest kind of 

tears. 
"Troubled Waters — Nathan Peaceful" — how that 

saintly face grew red, 
How the tears streamed through his fingers as he 

held his swimming head, 
But his wife stopped dow^n and whispered — what 

sweet message did she bear? 
For he turned with face transfigured as upon some 

mount of prayer. 
Swift as thought in highest action, sorrow passed 

and gladness came. 
At some wondrous strain of music breaking forth 

from Jesus' name. 
"Holy Rapture," said the Bishop, "I have left to 

be supplied," 
And I thought — you couldn't fill It Mr. Bishop, if 

you tried. 
For an angel duly transferred to this conference be- 
low 
Wouldn't know one half the wonders that those 

blessed people know. 
They would note some strain of discord though 

he sang as Heaven sings. 
And discover some shortcomings in the feathers of 

his wings. 
"Grand Endeavor — Jonas Laggard" — blessed be 

the Lord, thought L 

IT 64 



They have put that Brother Laggard where he has 

to work or die. 
For the church at Grand Endeavor, with its energy 

and prayer, 
Will transform him to a hero or just drive him to 

despair. 
If his trumpet lacks the vigor of the gospel's charm- 
ing sound 
They will start a big revival and forget that he is 

round. 
"Union Furnace — Solon Trimmer" — what a Bishop 

that must be! 
They have got the kind of preachers who will suit 

them to a T. 
Metho. — Congo. — Baptist — Uni. — in one nature 

blithe and bland. 
Fire or water, hell or heaven, always ready on de- 
mand. 
"Consecration — Jacob Faithful" — hand in hand the 

two will go. 
Through the years before them bringing heavenly 

life to earth below. 
"Greenland Corners — Peter Wholesoul" — but he 

lost his self-control, 
Buttoned up his coat as if he felt a cold wind strike 

his soul. 
Saw the dreary path before him, drew a deep 

breath, knit his brows, 
Then concluded to be faithful to his ordination 

vows. 
In the front pew sat the fathers, hair as white as 

driven snow — 
As the Bishop read appointments they had filled 

long years ago, 
Tender memories rushed upon them, life revived in 

heart and brain. 
Till it seemed that they could travel their old cir- 
cuits o'er again. 

65 



"Happy Haven — Joseph Restful" — how the joy 

shone in his face 
At the thought of being pastor for three years in 

such a place ! 
"Hard-as-Granite — Ephraim Smasher" — there the 

stewards sat in a row, 
And they didn't want that Smasher, and he didn't 

want to go, 
"Drowsy Hollow — Israel Wakim" — he is sent to 

sow and reap 
Where the congregations gather in the interests of 

sleep. 
As they sit on Sabbath mornings in their softly 

cushioned pews 
They begin to make arrangements for their regular 

weekly snooze. 
Through the prayer a dimness gathers over every 

mortal eye: 
Through the reading of the scriptures they begin 

to droop and sigh; 
In the hymn before the sermon, with its music 

grand and sweet, 
They put forth one mighty effort to be seen upon 

their feet. 
Then amidst the sermon throbbing with the gos- 
pels sweetest sound, 
They sink down in deepest slumber and are nodding 

all around. 
But I guess that Brother Wakim, on the first 

bright Sabbath day, 
When he preaches to that people, and is heard a 

mile away, 
Will defy both saint and sinner on a breast to lay 

a chin 
Till he strikes the strains of "lastly," and I'll war- 
rant him to win. 
For by all who ever heard him it is confidently 

said 

66 



If 'twere possible to mortal he would wake the very 
dead. 

Then a mist came o'er my vision, as the Bishop 
still read on, 

And the veil that hides the future for a moment 
was withdrawn — 

For I saw the world's Redeemer far above the Bis- 
hop stand, 

On his head a crown of glory, and a long roll in 
his hand — 

Round His throne a countless number of the ran- 
somed, listening, pressed, — 

He was stationing His preachers in the city of the 
Blest 

Some whose names were most familiar, known and 
reverenced by all, 

Went down to the smaller mansions back against 
the city wall. 

One who took the poorest churches, miles away from 
crowds and cars, 

Went up to a throne of splendor with a crown 
ablaze with stars. 

How the angels sang to greet him, how the Mas- 
ter cried — "Well done" — 

While the preacher blushed and wondered where 
he had such glory won. 

Some whose speech on earth was simple, with no 
arguments but tears. 

Nothing novel in their sermons for fastidious, itch- 
ing ears. 

Coldly welcomed by the churches, counted burden- 
some by all. 

Went up to the royal mansions, and were neighbors 
to Saint Paul. 

Soon the Master called a woman, only known here 
in the strife 



67 



By her quiet, gentle nature, though a famous preach- 
er's wife. 

Praised and blest her for the harvest she had gar- 
neied in the sky. 

But she meekly turned and answered — " 'twas my 
husband. Lord, not I." 

"Yes," the Master said, "his talents were as stars 
that glow and shine 

But thy faith gave them their virtue, and the glory, 
child, is thine!" 

Then a lame girl — I had known her — heard her 
name called with surprise. 

There was trembling in her bosom, there was won- 
der in her eyes. 

"I was nothing but a cripple, gleaned in no wide 
field, my King, 

Only sat a silent sufferer 'neath the shadow of 
thy wing!" 

"Thou hast been a mighty preacher, and the hearts 
of many stirred 

To devotion by they patience without uttering a 
word ;" 

Said the Master, and the maiden to his side with 
wonder pressed — 

Christ was stationing His preachers in the City of 
the Blest, 

And the harp strings of the angels linked their 
names to sweetest praise 

Whom the world has passed unnoticed in the blind- 
ness of its ways. 

I was still intently gazing on that scene, beyond the 
stars, 

When I saw the conference leaving and I started 
for the cars. 



68 



THE PAINTERS 

A painter sat at his task one day, 

And the picture grew apace; 
I saw the lights and the shadows play 

As he wrought upon his face; 
For light and shadow, in strange accord, 

Moved under his skillful touch; 
He finished his task, and for reward 

The people applauded much. 

A Painter sits in the open space, 

And He works day after day. 
We cannot see if upon His face 

The lights and the shadows play; 
But, lo! at the touch of the brush of God. 

The lights and the shadows meet ; 
And all the universe will applaud 

When the picture is complete. 

THE WOOING, WARNING CHRIST 

The voice that comes across the sea. 
The Master's voice from Galilee, 
Oh, how it warns and how it woos, 
Its accents heal, its accents bruise; 
The wooing and the warning meet 
To make the Master's word complete. 

We hear Him woo with matchless grace. 
But when we look Him in the face 
"If thou wouldst my disciple be 
Leave all," He cries, "and follow me." 
He woos to warn, and warns to woo 
A band of soldiers tried and true. 

The desolating Winter moans 

Through all the Master's magic tones; 

69 



Lay His most gracious message bare, 
And, lo, the Cross is hiding there. 
He offers Life, and the same breath 
Is burdened with the dust of death. 

A two-fold truth the Master tells — 
Now he attracts, now He repels. 
Dispensing gifts divine and free, 
And then demanding poverty. 
O, winsome Christ, how fair thou art! 
O, sovereign searcher of the heart! 

THE GOD OF ANOTHER CHANCE 

A man named Peter stumbled bad. 
Lost all the love he ever had. 
Fouled his own soul's divinest spring. 
Cursed, swore, and all that sort of thing; 
He got another chance, and then 
Reached the far goal of Godlike men. 

Your boy goes wrong, the same as he 
Who fed swine in the far country; 
He seems beyond the utmost reach 
Of hearts that pray, of lips that preach. 
Give him another chance, and see 
How beautiful his life may be. 

Paul cast the young man, Mark, aside, 

But Barnabas his metal tried. 

Called out his courage, roused his vim, 

And made a splendid man of him. 

Then Paul, near death, longed for one glance 

At Mark, who had another chance. 

Far-fallen souls, rise up, advance, 
'^"^^ is the God of one more chance. 



70 



The trees have other summers yet, 
New mornings follow suns that set. 
And God's own son found on his way 
Through Death, the new, fair Easter day. 

EASTER HYMNS OF HOPE 



"If it were not so, I would have told you." 

We seem to walk the world alone, 

Environed by strange mysteries. 
And yet we hope to find our own 

Beyond the hills, beyond the seas. 

We cannot see Life's distant goals. 
For veils of mist hang everywhere, 

But there are longings in our souls. 
And God himself hath set them there. 

The signs of Nature plainly say, 

And that divinest Book of all ; 
"We die to live again some day, 

Or else we never die at all." 

One came and went who gave no heed 
To doubt and fear in angry strife: 

He was Himself what we most need. 
The Resurrection and the Life. 

The grace of Love had made Him wise; 

His speech had no uncertain tone; 
There were no mists before His eyes; 

He saw so far — He must have known. 

For faithless eyes no light He shed ; 
He hushed the curious, awed the bold ; 
71 



But told He not all when he said : 
"Were it not so I would have told?" 



II 



'A young man sitting . . . clothed in a long, 
white garment** 

A young man sitting in a tomb, 
That is the last clear sign of death, 

A flower of Hope, whose fadeless bloom 
Sweetens the wide world with its breath. 

A young man sitting clothed in white 
Amidst the shadows dark and deep 

Keeps watch throughout the brief, still night, 
Where our beloved take their sleep. 

Then death is but the border line 

Dividing realms fair and more fair — 

This is the meaning and the sign 

Of strong young manhood sitting there. 

The glow of youth is on his brow, 

A fadeless lustre in his eyes. 
He goes at morn — 'tis breaking now — 

Back with our own to Paradise 

For where the Christ found brief repose 
On the rough road to His high goal, 

He left behind Him, when He rose. 
The angel Hope, for every soul. 

An angel in the tomb we dread! 

This is the truth the vision brings: 
Along the darkest paths we tread, 

We find the sweetest, brightest things. 



72 



Ill 



The flowers appear on the earth . . . the 
time of the singing of birds is come.'* 

I saw wise Nature bury deep 

Her faded flowers, her shriveled leaves, 

Refusing in her heart to keep 

One thought of aught that pains or grieves. 

She said: "Naught ends that is begun:" 
Then stood, a weaver, at Life's loom. 

And with the South wind and the sun 
She blotted out the past with bloom. 

She taught her birds their gladdest strain ; 

No sorrow lingered in her eyes; 
While over all she arched again 

The splendor of her summer skies. 

The blight of winter lingered long; 

His sepulchre was deep and wide; 
She rose, and filled the world with song. 

As though no flower had ever died. 

And thus she holds the mellow tone 

Of youth, through all the changing years: 

Forgetting rude winds that have blown. 
And making rainbows out of tears. 

IV 

"Except I see . . . / will not believe.'* 

Friend Thomas, there are eyes that see 
Far deeper than the eyes of sense: 



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To Love there is no mystery, 

And Faith hath blessed recompense. 

To see His hands, His feet. His side, 

Who outward swung death's massive door, 

To us, in these late days denied, 
Gives but the joy of seeing more. 

For souls that feel to-day His hand, 
The healing of His wounded side. 

And His sweet nearness understand. 
Know that He surely lives who died. 

Thanks, Thomas, for thine hour of doubt, 
The firm demand to touch and see, 

For we had been less sure without 
The help that comes to us from thee. 

THE GOOD SAMARITAN 

Or, Secret Life the True Measure of Character 

Scene — The lonely road of eighteen miles between 
Jerusalem and Jericho. 

Actors — Four robbers, a Jew, Priest, Levite, Sa- 
maritan. 

Just what we do, unbiased, free. 
Just what we are where none can see 
On lonely paths we travel o'er, 
Just that we are, and nothing more. 
Our public acts the world may scan. 
The secret life reveals the man. 

Here, far away from man's abode, 
Upon this lonely mountain road 
Between two noble cities laid, 



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Men, as they are, will be displayed. 

Above — Jerusalem ; below — 

The walls of ancient Jericho, 

With eighteen miles of road between — 

The wildest, loneliest ever seen, 

As if the sea at some God-word 

Had turned to stone and never stirr'd. 

Four men, well dressed, are passing now; 
They raise their hats, full low they bow: 
Their forms such finished grace display, 
Sons of some noble house are they. 
Now far up on the rocky height 
A lonely traveller comes in sight. 
Slowly he threads his winding way; 
His form is bent, his beard is grey. 
The locks that o'er his shoulders flow 
Are white as Hermon's driven snow. 
Nearer he draws! a noble face. 
Some patriarch of that favored race 
Which gave the Christ; a wealthy Jew: 
And on he passes from our view. 

Hush! there's a cry! a w^ail! a shriek! 

The strong are striking down the weak! 

And there the victim from the rocks 

Is struggling, sinking 'neath the shocks 

Of brutal blows; he falls at last; 

And lo! the well dressed men that passed 

Have robbed the Jew in open day 

And left him bleeding by the way. 

A man may wear a fine black coat. 

Salute you well, then cut your throat. 

The biggest rascals in the land 

Will move with manners the most bland. 

And pious stories glibly tell: 

They look like heaven, and act like — well, 



7$ 



A lonely place, no eyes about, 
Will find that sort of people out. 
Jerusalem and Jericho 
The public life may read and know, 
But on the lonely roads between 
The measure of the soul is seen. 

Here comes a Priest, a man of God, 

With sympathies both deep and broad, 

A love that knows nor race nor creed, 

Call to him, Jew! he will give heed! 

The moans which tell of thy distress. 

The open wound, thy nakedness. 

Will move the man that loves to pray — 

Call to him, Jew, across the way. 

Call louder! holy themes and high 

Engage his thoughts. He's passing by! 

Saw you the look of high disdain 

That answered to the cry of pain! 

The air of awful saintliness 

With which he gathered us his dress, 

Acting, as plain as speech could be, 

"You'd better die than trouble me!" 

The climber of grand altar stairs. 

The maker of unending prayers. 

The keeper of all heavenly balms. 

The singer of seraphic psalms. 

The friend of souls, their hope, their guide. 

He passes by the other side. 

If we have love, beyond a doubt 

A dying man will call it out. 

A lion, brute, will heed the yelp 

And anguish of its wounded whelp, 

And soulless bird that sings and flies 

Will answer to its own that cries. 

What made the priest, that man of prayer 

Pass by, his nose up in the air? 

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He wrought his noble actfons when 

They could be seen and praised of men. 

That bleeding Jew, in this lone place 

Has torn the mask from ofi his face. 

In spacious temples he was loud 

And lacrymose before a crowd, 

He gave munificently where 

The throng would cry out ''there, look there!" 

He seemed to have a generous heart 

When he was acting out a part 

In some fine play; but that lone Jew 

Has laid him bare and looked him through. 

He would have seen that bleeding brow 

Up in Jerusalem just now; 

He would have heard that cry of woe 

Along the streets of Jericho, 

And helped his brother like a God, v 

With tongues to tell the deed abroad; \ 

But here, where none stand by to see. 

No tongue, hands, eyes or heart has he. 

His life to low, self-seeking, ran. 

He was a priest, but not a man. 

A scandal to the name he bears. 

Just a machine for making prayers. 

We may be great where men can praise, 

What are we on life's lonely ways? 

The whispered word of hopeful cheer, 

The silent falling of a tear. 

The friendly hand, the generous deed, 

Known only to the heart of need. 

Show, clearer than a dress parade. 

The stuff of which our souls are made. 

Here comes another of his kind. 
But smaller, and so walks behind, 
A Levite (would the tribe had ceased), 
Apeing the manners of the priest; 
Puts on the same "don't-touch-me" look, 
77 



Takes just the gait his master took, 

Treads in his track where ere it goes, 

The same precisely, heels and toes. 

No ! he is crossing to the place 

Where the Jew lies; looks in his face, 

Walks round him, views each wounded limb. 

Stares in the eyes fast growing dim, 

Treats him as so much broken clay. 

Then pigeon-toes himself away. 

This doer of religious chores 

Inside of Temple hours and doors. 

Who held religion as a trade 

And only worked it when it paid, 

No thought had he of sw^oons or pains, 

But simply looked on the remains, 

As people walk our dead about 

To see if they are well laid out. 

He served his Maker by the piece 

In handling pots and blood and grease, 

And having dressed the last beasts limb, 

Nor God nor man had claims on him; 

He loosed himself from holy things 

When he untied his apron strings. 

Poor Jew, thy sorrows have not ceased. 
For riding slowly on his breast. 
Comes one who bears thy fiercest ban. 
The loathed and lost Samaritan, 
The scum and refuse of all lands — 
Cover thy face up with thy hands! 
Upon thy nation and thy tribe 
He will heap jest and scatter gibe. 
Hurl curses at thy Holy Place, 
And call thee dog right to thy face, 
Answer thy cries with oath and hiss — 
Would God that thou hadst died ere this! 
He lingers: it is but to kill! 
Beside the Jew the beast stands still! 
78 



Above the wounded, dying man, 
Leans that abhorred Samaritan. 
He seeks the knife beneath his cloak 
That carries death in one swift stroke; 
He draws it! no! that's oil! that's wine! 
He looks like love, heaven-born, divine, 
Big tears are streaming down his cheeks, 
How tender are the words he speaks, — 
"My brother, in distress thou art; 
I am thy brother; here's my heart; 
Thy wounds shall drink my oil, my wine, 
Then on this humble beast of mine 
To a near inn safe thou shalt ride. 
And I will walk close at thy side." 

Take home the lesson as ye can. 
The secret life reveals the man. 

How we have erred in judgment all. 
Calling that great which is so small. 
Calling that low which is so high 
And Godlike, it can never die. 
We see, but only see in part. 
We see the face, but not the heart — 
Beneath some cursed and hated name 
May sweep a soul with love aflame. 
And priestly robes may hide a gaunt. 
Disfigured soul, all froth and cant. 

Samaritan, well named the Good, 

We hail thy sign of brotherhood, 

It breathes through every cry of need. 

And answers in each loving deed. 

It knows nor sect nor creed nor race, 

But shines in every human face. 

Links North to South and East to West, 

And throbs in every human breast. 



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Deep as the soul of man it goes, 
Wide as his sympathies it flows, 
High as his hopes, deep as his fears, 
Awakening joys, suppressing tears, 
And in the face of clique and clan 
Proclaims the Brotherhood of Man. 



ONLY THE BEAUTIFUL ABIDES 

We soon forget the snow 
Amidst the Summer's glow, 
And in the morning light 
Forgotten is the night. 

The wildest storm no trace 
Leaves on the ocean's face. 
The blight of wintry hours 
Spring hides beneath her flowers. 

All dark, unlovely things 
Are borne away on wings. 
Or swiftly rushing tides — 
The beautiful abides. 

The universe takes care 
Of all things true and fair. 
Only the taint, the lie, 
Can be destroyed, or die. 



OUR BETHLEHEMS 

Oh, not alone in some far clime 
The plains of Bethlehem lie, 

Or in some distant night of time 
Came angels from the sky. 



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Whenever Christ is born again 

In human hearts, a King, 
There stretches Bethlehem's star-lit plain, 

And there the angels sing. 

And there are shepherds tending still 

The flocks of souls by night. 
And leading them with love's rare skill 

Toward the morning light. 

These men hear through midnights deep 

The old glad tidings ring; 
And they who keep the Father's sheep 

Still hear the angels sing. 

So ever more the wide world o'er 

Divine birth measures roll. 
And Bethlehem's plain lies near the door 

Of every shepherd soul. 

INDIAN SUMMER 

When alien winds on Summer blew. 



To sheltered vales went he. 
As Jesus from His foes withdrew 
To quiet Bethany. 

Around him, as around the Lord, 
His works of love were spread; 

Some forms of life to health restored, 
And some raised from the dead. 

The Indian Summer saw with pain 

Her Master's end was near. 
And brought from mountain, sea and plain, 

The beauty of the year; 



8i 



And gave to Summer as he lay, 

In balm and sunshine poured, 
Anointment for his burial day. 

As Mary did her Lord. 

Then forth the fragrance, wave on wave, 

Burst, like a spirit freed; 
And gracious words the Summer gave 

The doer and the deed. 

The autumn winds, chagrined at this, 

Esteeming all as loss, 
Betrayed the Summer with a kiss. 

And Winter reared his cross. 

THE ONE CLEAR NOTE OF LIFE 

Above the world's discordant strife, 

Its tumult and uproar, 
The one clear note of ageless Life, 

Is gladness evermore. 

The measured movement of all things. 

Life's rhythmic flow, serene. 
Declare that something flutes and sings 

Behind the starry screen. 

It maybe, just beyond our sense 

Of hearing, there are choirs, 
And orchestras divine, from whence 

Float strains of lutes and lyres. 

The streams have heard them as they run 
Through meadows, over plains. 

And earth, and air, and star, and sun. 
Seem moving to the strains. 



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The bee goes humming, humming by, 

Repeating some rare rune, 
And all wings beautiful that fly 

Keep time with some glad tune. 

The winds, they never sigh, they sing. 

To measures rich and rare; 
Toil's belted wheels in rhythm swing 

To music in the air. 

O, listen to thine own heart-beat. 
My friend, its throbbings blend 

With some life-music, grand and sweet, 
Thou canst not comprehend. 

What joys the happy children know, 
Their eyes, how sparkling bright; 

They live the nearest to the flow 
Of streams of song and light 

A dying man across the street. 
Slow drifting from Time's shore, 

Heard melodies surpassing sweet 
He never heard before. 

A splendor glorified his face, 

And wonder filled his eyes; 
He must have seen some blessed place — 

Death's beautiful surprise. 

And one walked once in Galilee, 
To whom high joy was given; 

His ears could hear: His eyes could see. 
On earth He lived in heaven. 

His Father spoke to Him one day, 
That His heart might not break: 

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"It thundered!" some were heard to say; 
Some said: "An angel spake!" 

Come, friend, let us return and know- 
Life's deep, unsaddened word. 

And with the Christ through uplands go. 
And hear what He once heard. 

For spite of tear and sigh and moan, 

All discords that annoy. 
The one clear, everlasting tone 

Of Life, is Joy — pure Joy. 

MANHOOD 

The star must long in darkness lie 
Before it glitters in the sky, 
Be moulded, broken, wrought anew. 
Shaken to atoms, and passed through 
The furnace flame, until it glows 
White as the fire on which God blows, 
And then He sets it on some height — 
A lonely splendor through the night. 

How comes the sheaf of ripened grain? 

The wheat must die to live again, 

And out of darkness and the mould 

Make of itself the hundred-fold! 

So he, who to some worth aspires 

Will find it when the testing fires 

Have searched him through, and strokes of pain 

Have beaten into finer grain 

The texture of his heart and brain. 

When, after hammer stroke and heat, 

Serene he stands upon his feet. 

Nor fortune fair, nor sore distress. 

Can make his value more or less; 

To purer, truer manhood wrought, 

He is himself all that he sought. 

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THE RAINBOW AROUND THE THRONE 

As friends long parted, meeting, 

And joy o'er grief prevails, 
Use tender signs of greeting 

When other language fails, 
So, when earth's ties are broken 

And God brings home His own. 
He greets them with this token, 

A rainbow round the throne. 

There, all things will remind us — 

The rivers and the trees — 
Of scenes we left behind us — 

The mountains and the seas — 
And, mellowing all the splendor. 

On walls of polished stone 
Will beam, with radiance tender, 

A rainbow round the throne. 

The throne — the throne of glory, 

Ah, who could bear the sight 
Without the gracious story 

Told in that arch of light! 
If judgment passes knowing. 

Then Love, too, is unknown, 
The opening heavens showing 

A rainbow round the throne. 

REWARD 

The ministers to human needs, 

The sowers of the heavenly seeds. 

The doers of the blessed deeds. 

Shall walk the streets of precious stones 

And sit down on the splendid thrones. 



85 



A SONG OF TRUST 

Over and over and over again 
God has been sending the sun and the rain, 
Bloom to the meadows, sap to the boughs, 
Keeping unbroken with Nature His vows. 

Over and over and over again 
God has been sending us pleasure and pain, 
Stirring, then leading to beautiful goals. 
Keeping unbroken His promise with souls. 

Still we go fearing that something will miss 
Its measure of care, its guerdon of bliss. 
With faithfulness written around us so plain, 
Over and over and over again. 

Seeing the promise of God standeth fast, 
Trust, for the future will be as the past, 
Love, leading and rest, the sunshine and rain. 
Over and over and over again. 

HOW WILL IT BE? 

How will it be when the roses fade. 
And the trees are brown and bare, 

And the beautiful things that God had made 
Lie withering everywhere? 

Then, faith will look on a world arrayed 
In all that is fresh and fair. 

How will it be when the clouds appear. 

And the sun is lost to sight. 
When the strongest falter and step with fear 

Through the deepening shades of night? 
"Sun of my soul, thou Savior dear," 

Thy face shall be strength and light. 

86 



How will it be when the pomp and show 
Of the world to which we cling, 

Is lost in the shadows that death will throw 
From the plumes of his dusky wing? 

We shall see the city of God and go 
Through the gates to meet the King. 

How will it be when we reach at last 
The home we have sought so long, 

And tread the courts of its temple vast 
In the midst of a holy throng? 

Moment of rapture, unsurpassed, 
It cannot be told in song. 

THE WINDING STAIRWAY 

"A winding about still upward.'* — Ez. 41 17. 

Round and round Life's circles run 

Through plants that spread and climb. 
Round and round the golden sun 

Earth rolls to reach her prime. 
And this the way through circling time 

In every age, and every clime 
That souls have wrought with hope sublime, 

And heaven and glory won. 

We cannot stand in one small place 

And see God's temple fair, 
The miracles of strength and grace. 

The lights and shadows there, 
Our feet must tread with patient care 

The rugged steps of toil and prayer 
All round and round the winding stair 

That leads up to His face. 



87 



"AS WE ARE KNOWN" 

We are known — our moral weight, 
Ruling purpose, inward state; 
Our true self-hood, loved or loathed. 
Walks unsandaled and unclothed. 
On the life of man unseen 
This great universe looks in. 

Through the deepest, darkest night 
We stand in a blaze of light, 
Every secret love unsealed, 
Every hidden sin revealed, 
All our being bared to view 
As the heavens look us through. 

Could w^e climb the loftiest steep. 
Could we pierce the lowest deep, 
Were we laid and swiftly borne 
On the radiant wings of morn 
To the outmost verge of space, 
God would look us in the face. 

All our silence-breathing sighs 
Make a tumult through the skies; 
Thoughts unuttered peal as chimes. 
Glad or mournful, through all climes: 
Every throb of inward strife 
Stirs the boundless deep of life. 

What we do, not what we dream ; 
What we are, not what we seem; 
What behind our word is thought; 
What behind our prayer is sought. 
As we live unseen, alone, 
This we are — and we are known. 



88 



Challenge not the false report, 
Bring no witness into court, 
With the verdict of to-day 
Make no issue, go thy way; 
God at last the truth shall own, 
Giving glory — we are known. 

WHEN NIGHT COMES ON 

There's work enough till night comes on. 
In fields that lie untilled and bare. 
And where the wheat strives with the tare, 
Through darkened lands, at our own doors, 
In still soul chambers, mine and yours. 
For did not He, the wisest, say: 
"Go! work, while it is called to-day?" 

There's work enough till night comes on. 

There's wealth of Joy when night comes on, 
For those who, turning to the past. 
Hear rustling grain from seed they cast 
The echoes of kind words, their own. 
Across the graves of dead years blown, 
And breathe the perfume of the flowers, 
Called Loving Deeds, through twilight hours, 

There's wealth of Joy when night comes on. 

We cannot work when night comes on : 
Life's battle may be lost or won. 
The light has fled, the day is done, 
The fields of grand achievement lie 
Deserted, 'neath a darkened sky. 
And through the market-place no clear 
Voice rings: "Why stand ye idle here?" 

We cannot work when night comes on. 



89 



FINISHED WORK 

Finish what thou hast to do, 

Prove thy right to wear the crown, 

Bravely tread thy journey through 
Ere the sun goes down. 

Lay some stone each passing hour 

In thy palace of renown, 
Run the flag up on the tower, 

Ere the sun goes down. 

Crowd thy bark, though storm assailed, 
Over seas that seek to drown, 

To the harbor mouth, full-sailed, 
Ere the sun goes down. 

Stand up bravely in the fight 
Play the king and not the clown. 

Clear the trenches, storm the height. 
Ere the sun goes down. 

Plow thy furrow in Life's field, 

Though the heavens may smile or frown. 

Falter not, look back nor yield. 
Till the sun goes down. 

If thou canst not reap, then glean, 
Midst the stubble bare and brown. 

Search the field and leave it clean 
Ere the sun goes down. 

Time enough to lay aside 

Warrior's mail and priestly gown 
In the dusk of eventide. 

When the sun goes down. 



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JUN 8 19H 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



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\9il 



